


Breathe out so I can breathe you in

by circa (stealthturtle), Gorgeousgreymatter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Light Asphyxiation, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stealthturtle/pseuds/circa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: There’s barely enough dry weed to make a particularly fat blunt fit for one werewolf and one kid with ADD. Stiles looks dumbly at his rolling paper in consideration of his predicament.“Ever tried shotgunning?” Derek asks.Stiles feels his throat constrict.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 23
Kudos: 345





	Breathe out so I can breathe you in

**Author's Note:**

> For silver, jen, ali, niki, rachel, grim, lyra, milly, katie, and maia.
> 
> We don't know how we pulled this off -- but we did it anyways so here you go!

By all accounts, it’s a miracle Stiles hasn’t lost his mind yet. And look, he  _ knows _ that surviving high school while working part-time at Beacon Hills’ Center for the Rehabilitated Supernaturals (employee population: him) was in no way going to be easy, but he’s been busting his ass at doing all the goddamn research in their loose little team of angsty werewolves and werewolf-adjacents  _ while  _ getting his ass ridden by Harris on the regular, and it’s shitty, is what it is.

He thinks about rigging the teacher’s table in the Chem lab idly while he lowers himself on the grassier patches of this part of the Preserve, sheltered by tall Sycamores and overlooking the creek. He flicks away nutshells and pebbles before settling cross-legged at the base of a boxelder tree, offering him cool shade and the slight breeze that picks up as California’s sun sets in the distance. He pats down his jeans and shimmies out the most expensive fucking bag of weed he’s bought in his life to date, ‘cause Jim is an asshole of a dealer and fluctuates his prices like he’s the entire goddamn stock market, but he’s  _ reliable _ okay, and discreet. And Stiles could use a lot of discreteness in his life whilst harboring downers like cannabis and murderous creatures in his father’s town. 

He snorts at the thought,  _ yeah, total downers.  _

He brings out a rolling paper and a notebook he can assemble the joint on, putting a cigarette together with easy, practised movements. He took his time to eyeball the amount of weed he wanted but ended up with a lot more than intended, so he just figured it was a sign from the universe to  _ really _ loosen up today. He commits to it by savouring the first and the second hit, letting the smoke linger in his mouth and marinate until he couldn’t hold in the acrid feeling building in his throat and lungs any longer, letting the smoke billow out sharply in front of his face. It usually takes him half a joint to reach what he considers the perfect high: one where he’s pleasantly lose but not incapacitated enough to not enjoy his surroundings. 

He loves getting baked in an idyllic place like this. It’s the best thing - next to the smell of a new comic book - to finally shed his layers after an unbearable day of being a human in the most ungodly preternatural town in the state. The grass on this side has always been more lush, and even in Autumn it looks like the entire ground is on fire instead of barren and dead. Scott and he found this years ago, shelved deeply away from the joggers’ path and therefore wasn’t even remotely in the vicinity of the patrol route his father’s deputies frequented. He should know, he’s tried many, many times to tag along. 

Riding a high in this particular part of the Preserve was even more special in the spring, and it’s in the middle of April now so that meant he got to stare dazedly at bellflowers and purple dead nettles sprouting out from the surrounding foliage. The smell of honeysuckle growing from hardy bushes mix in with the distinct pungence of weed, making him sneeze twice in succession. He wipes at his nose with his sleeves and then strangely feels droplets of something that definitely did not come from his nose. He looks up with narrowed eyes and wonders if it was just him or the sky really was greyer than it looked not two seconds ago. 

A shadow suddenly falls over him and he swivels his head to the side, surprised to see Derek Hale standing over him, glowering with deep interest at the lit blunt he has in his fingers and the school notebook on his lap that just about gives everything about how illegal this looked away. 

Stiles curses inwardly and straightens his back. “Uh, hey Derek,” he starts awkwardly. He’s nowhere near baked, but the few dregs of cannabis in his system is helping him not panic as much as he probably would have, being caught by their resident ex-convict Alpha while smoking a joint in his territory. Derek doesn’t return the greeting and only puts his hands inside his leather jacket, surveying the scattering of Stiles's belongings around him: a rumpled hoodie, a set of keys, a half-finished bottle of Fanta from lunch period. 

The second thing Stiles says is, “Don’t tell my dad.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and finally responds, “Why would I talk to your dad about anything?” 

“I don’t know how you and your agendas work, dude!” 

“None of my agendas include ratting you out to your dad.” 

Abated, Stiles's spine incrementally relaxes and he leans back against the tree trunk, bringing his joint back up to his lips in an attempt to brush Derek’s presence off. But before he could take another pull, fat drops of rain land on his eyelids and the back of his wrists, startling him into alertness. The sky doesn’t give another warning before it completely opens up and suddenly it’s drizzling, his clothes and  _ shit his weed _ getting thoroughly speckled with rain water despite the shade of leaves over them.

He hurriedly gathers his sparse belongings and rolls them into his hoodie, now a little muddy on the edges when the dirt mixed with water. 

“Where’s your Jeep?” Derek inquires over the rain, using his hand to shield his eyes from the droplets.

“Left it at the cemetery,” Stiles replies, scrambling to stand up and curling his ball of things against his stomach as the rainfall picks up, landing heavily on their hair and turning the tops of their clothes darker. 

When he looks back at the werewolf, Derek is already  _ several  _ paces ahead, leaving Stiles with no choice but to break out into a near sprint to follow the older man into a thick fold of bushes. They climb over tens of them, thorns catching on Stiles's pant leg inconveniently and almost making Stiles trip and fall face-first on the muddy ground.

Over ahead, Stiles spots the decrepit remains of the Hale house where Derek is already climbing up the porch stairs. He pushes his legs to run into the relative safety of the leaking porch roof and stumbles on a step. Derek catches him by the shoulder and sets him upright and doesn’t let go until they’re both past the doors, tracking dirty footsteps into the foyer. And just like that, Stiles gets his first look at the Hale manor while he’s soaking wet. 

It’s not much warmer in here than it is outside, and it’s dark and kind of musty. There’s definitely stuff  _ growing _ on some of the walls -- twisted creeper vines and dark plumes of green ivy crawling up through the cracked floorboards, the type of plants resilient enough to grow in the midst of all that lingering death. It’s creepy, if he’s honest, and not the least bit welcoming. And a human being should definitely not be sleeping, let alone living here. But Derek’s not, you know, technically human, and creepy is kind of his thing, so maybe Stiles shouldn’t be so surprised. 

It’s been too long since he’s said anything, he knows that, but he’s pretty sure that the weed he got is a lot stronger than his usual strain, so Jim maybe isn’t a complete bastard, at least this time. Something drips on his forehead, and Stiles blinks dumbly, looking up and getting another cold droplet of rain right in the eye. Before he can suggest that they might not be much better inside than out there, Derek’s grabbing his shoulders again and literally lifting him over a surprisingly large hole in the floor that Stiles hadn’t noticed yet and shoving him into what he thinks must be a bedroom. Or the closest approximation to one because yeah, there’s a mattress on the floor, but still, the designation is generous. The floor is completely dry here, though, so the roof must be mostly intact in this part of the house. 

“Um,” Stiles finally manages to say, because his THC-soaked brain, his eyes, and mouth must have finally synced up again to the point that he realizes Derek is staring at him, like he’s waiting for him to say something, anything, "is this your room?”

Derek shrugs, and Stiles can only watch, cotton-mouthed, as the wolf unceremoniously shucks his jacket and his clearly water-logged tank top that used to be white, but was now obviously see-through, and throws them to the floor like he couldn’t possibly care less where they landed.  _ God _ , _ aren't there any ugly, fat werewolves?  _ Stiles wonders desperately, dropping his gaze hastily to the smoke-charred floor, because maybe he shouldn't be ogling the now half-naked and incredibly muscular man in front of him quite so blatantly. He likes his head attached to his neck, thank you very much. But that also means it takes him another full five seconds before he realizes Derek is handing him something that takes him even longer to recognize is a towel, and then Stiles is suddenly very aware that his own clothes are soaked through and clinging to him. He's got goosebumps all up and down his arms. 

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Derek says pointedly, and Stiles nods, because now the wolf's looking all expectantly at him. At least he manages to clumsily yank off his t-shirt without completely falling on his face, which honestly, Stiles considers a win. And now he’s shirtless, and very, very aware of the fact that he is 147 lbs of pale skin and bones and sarcasm, and Derek is  _ Derek _ , and he’s all bulging biceps, and rippling abs, and sun-kissed skin, and shockingly pretty, green eyes and  _ oh, god _ this was a terrible idea. Derek is staring at him still. Actually, Stiles is pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked, which,  _ rude _ , because at least Stiles had the decency to pretend not to openly gawk. It’s starting to unsettle him, so he hastily covers his head with the towel and rubs at his hair just so he can breathe for a second without entirely having a freakout in front of Derek, of all people. Or not people, because he technically isn’t, and Stiles has to actually bite back a hysterical laugh at that.

Fuck, he  _ is  _ high. 

Of course when he reemerges from his terrycloth hideout, Derek is right in front of him like nobody ever explained to him the concept of respecting personal space, and Stiles lets out a sound he can only horrifyingly describe as an  _ eep _ . Derek arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Instead he presses his jacket into Stiles's hands, and Stiles has never been more confused in his life about what’s happening. 

“You’re cold,” is all Derek says. “Put it on.” 

He’s also just stoned enough to go along with it. The leather is a little damp, but when he slips his arms through the sleeves, the inside is dry and warm, really warm, against his skin. It also smells really good, like rain and pine soap, and something else he can’t quite place. Maybe it’s the whole Alpha thing, or maybe it’s just a Derek thing, but Stiles finds it oddly comforting nonetheless. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and Derek just nods and shrugs again. 

“You can smoke in here,” Derek says suddenly. “I don’t mind.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says, and he sees his rolled up sweatshirt on the mattress, which he doesn’t even remember bringing in here. “Okay.” And he sort of awkwardly spazzes his way over to Derek’s make-shift bed, bending down to rifle through the pockets of his hoodie until he finds his rolling papers, along with the now-slightly-damp bag of bud. “Do you,” and Stiles isn’t even sure why he’s asking, but the words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them, “um, want to?”

He’s expecting Derek to huff at him all disapprovingly and roll his eyes in that way he does, but that’s not what happens. Instead, the older man just looks at him with an expression that Stiles is incapable of deciphering in the moment, arms crossed and leaning against the wall of his sad, burnt-up excuse for a bedroom and says, “Sure. Okay.” 

...

“I didn’t think werewolves could get high,” Stiles says offhandedly, poking through the bag of bud and trying to find a rolling paper that isn’t completely ruined. “I thought it went along with the whole, you know, supernatural constitution thing.” 

“Weed is metabolized a little differently than alcohol, I think,” Derek says, watching Stiles’s hands like he’s doing something a lot more interesting than picking buds apart with his fingernails. Stiles isn’t sure if Derek’s eyes have moved away from him once, and it feels a lot like being pinned, only his back’s not literally against the wall this time. “We feel it, it just takes a little more than the average human dose.” 

Well, that might be a problem, Stiles thinks, shaking the baggie and making a face at the shake sticking damply to the plastic. There’s barely enough dry weed to make a particularly fat blunt fit for one werewolf and one kid with ADD. Stiles looks dumbly at his rolling paper in consideration of his predicament. 

“Ever tried shotgunning?” Derek asks. 

Stiles feels his throat constrict, and chokes so suddenly on his own saliva that his eyes start to water. Derek’s expression shifts from impassive observer to concerned Alpha, and before Stiles can say anything, the wolf is kneeling in front of him, thrusting a plastic bottle of water in his face. Embarrassing, but helpful, Stiles thinks, and he takes a sip just to do something with his hands so he doesn’t start flailing like an idiot. 

“No,” Stiles finally manages to croak, “but we can, um, try it, if it’s okay with you.” Derek says nothing, but resumes the whole staring thing while Stiles presses shake into the crease of the paper with trembling hands, a feat which is a lot harder, it turns out, with an audience. Especially when that audience is a normally broody and glowering werewolf who is now inexplicably smirking at him, which  _ so  _ isn’t helping. “I might be bad at it,” Stiles says, holding out what might be the worst joint he’s ever rolled in his entire life. 

Derek doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he apparently doesn’t care, just plucks it out of Stiles’s palm and places it between his lips. Stiles is the one staring now, because he doesn’t think he’s noticed Derek’s mouth so acutely before, and suddenly it’s the  _ only _ thing he notices. 

“Stiles.”

_ “Stiles _ .” 

“What?” he says automatically, and his vision refocuses enough to see that Derek’s scowling around the lip of the joint and holding his hand out, and Stiles couldn’t tell you what he wanted with a gun to his head. The wolf rolls his eyes, and then suddenly his very tan, very naked torso is all up in Stiles’s business, and  _ Jesus _ , is that Derek’s hand in his pocket?

Derek Hale’s hand is in his pocket.

“Calm down,” Derek says, though it sounds a little distorted with the blunt clamped between his teeth. When he pulls back, Stiles’s lighter (his favorite, with the peeling Batman label), is caught between the man’s long, spindly fingers. “I asked you for this like a hundred times.” 

Okay, fair, but ADD, remember?

It turns out that watching Derek spark up a joint is a mesmerizing thing, almost sacramental, and there is simply too much to take in: the way he sucks in that first hit, broad chest heaving, his incredibly sculpted cheeks hollowing before all that smoke plumes out of full, parted lips, curling and twisting its way up to the ceiling. 

Stiles is going to pass out before any aforementioned shotgunning happens, he knows it. 

“Come here,” Derek says, but he doesn’t actually wait for Stiles to move or even acknowledge he’s heard him, which makes sense considering Stiles’s track record for listening so far. Instead, Derek’s big hand is suddenly splayed over his face, cupping his jaw, and it’s so shockingly intimate already that Stiles can feel his heart start to rabbit in the cage of his chest. Derek’s hand is so hot against Stiles’s cool skin, practically burning him with the touch, that he almost flinches away, but stops himself. “Open your mouth,” he murmurs, and Stiles does actually listen this time, but then Derek’s laughing a little bit, and he feels the werewolf's palm shift under his chin, lifting it gently, gentler than Stiles thought he’d ever be capable of. “Not that open. Like this.” 

It feels a lot like Derek’s about to kiss him, even though Stiles is using every neuron in his teenage-hormone-soaked brain to remind him that’s not actually what’s happening here. He wrestles for one panicked moment with the decision of whether or not to keep his eyes open, before decidedly shutting them. If this turns out to be as mortifying as he imagines it might, at least this way he won’t have to see it firsthand. 

Derek has a thumb hooked  _ just so _ on Stiles’s bottom lip, and this way he has full control of the flexion in the teen’s jaw. And Stiles's brain is already hazy at best, but with how close Derek’s mouth and his  _ everything _ is, he feels his synapses get overshot by the dizzying prospect of getting kissed by the older man. But he isn’t, is the thing. 

Instead, Derek takes his second hit and leans in close to brush his mouth against Stiles's in the barest amount, and simply breathes out, releasing air and smoke into it. He feels it curling inside, coating the back of his throat as he sucks it all in reflexively. The hand on his jaw is still so startlingly warm against his cold cheek that it ironically makes him shiver. He keeps it in his lungs for a few seconds, feeling Derek draw away from his space, before exhaling as his eyes flutter open. 

Derek’s looking at him with an expression so open Stiles coughs twice to hide the jump in his pulse. “Uh,” he starts and clears his throat, “So that’s - that’s shotgunning, huh.” 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, leaning back with his other arm supporting his weight on the mattress. 

Stiles tightens the leather jacket around himself and says, “It’s cool.” He feels incredibly self-conscious after being so close to him, and his mind reels with the not-quite-kiss and wonders if Derek had noticed how chapped his lips were. He refrains from bringing a hand up to his mouth just to stupidly chase down the barely-there feeling of the slightest brush Derek’s stubble had made on his upper-lip.

Instead, he asks, “ Can we go again?”

Derek holds the blunt between his middle and forefinger easily, looking like he’s done this many, many times before. A question of who had taught Derek to smoke and showed him how to shotgun briefly flashes in his mind, and if possible, he gets a little more light-headed thinking about it. But it still surprises Stiles when Derek suggests, “You should try holding it in for longer.” 

“What?” Stiles blinks at him. He’s no rookie when it comes to lighting up; he’s had the drive to look for a dealer the moment his child psychologist mentioned it just because she was legally bound to inform him of all his options as her patient. And Jim, for all his dirty capitalist ways, was a pretty solid dealer who actually showed him how to roll a joint and take a hit. So he’d say he’s gotten pretty good at maximising his high. He’d even go as far to boast that his lung’s capacity to hold in smoke was a solid 7 at worst. Hearing Derek give him weed-inhaling advice was a little off-putting, if not insulting. Not everyone can be supernatural creatures with indestructible lungs, alright? 

Derek continues, “I’ve tried it before, holding it in for as long as I could.”

Stiles furrows his eyebrows. “You know that’s a myth, right? You don’t actually get higher that way."

“No,” Derek answers immediately, “but being light-headed gives you a different kind of rush.” He takes another hit but doesn’t offer it to Stiles this time, which sort of rubs him the wrong way because that’s  _ his  _ weed damn it. But he can’t even hold onto the irritation long enough to not admit watching Derek Hale smoking was a show unto itself. There’s a certain surety Stiles gets from trading his goods to witness it - the hooded eyes, the slack-jawed mouth pursing to expel thick billows of milky-white smoke into the air. It’s dark in the room and down-right gloomy outside, but the light from the windows paint the room with a faint blue glow, and this way Derek looks straight out of a fucking movie, which is just something his brain  _ cannot  _ handle right now.

So instead of dissecting the sudden mind-numbing attraction, Stiles turns to his best defense mechanism and starts, “Y’know you could destroy brain cells if you -” he pauses to mime putting a hand around his throat and catalogues the way Derek’s eyes briefly flick to the action “- if you subject yourself to oxygen deprivation. Not good, dude. Like, your body will literally beat you the fuck up according to David Blaine. He uh, he went on Oprah just to break a world record and, well, he did so good for him, but his diaphragm convulsed so much he said it felt like someone punched him in the stomach like ten billion times.”

Derek regards him with amusement and a quirked eyebrow. “I’m not asking you to break a world record.”

“Just saying!” he throws his hands up, “I value your brain cells, dude, they keep us alive. Plus we’re totally weed bros now, and what kind of bro lets his other bro withhold precious O2?”

“Don’t call me bro.” 

“See, we tried that with the whole  _ ‘don’t call me dude’  _ thing, so I’m not sure what makes you think I’d listen this time.”

Derek shrugs. “Worth a shot. Want another go?” 

Fuck, did he ever. 

“Now I feel like I need to challenge David Blaine,” he jokes lightly, but there’s a queasy feeling in his gut accompanying the hummingbird in his heart at the thought of putting his mouth against Derek’s again. He shuffles closer to ask, “What makes holding it in worth it anyways?” 

“You’re smart, Stilinski,” Derek holds the unlit end of the cigarette at the edge of his lips. “What happens when that pressure gets released?"

He’s itching to crane his neck just so and drink in the next hit, but Derek moves it away from him in a manner that could almost be considered teasing. “Hormonal flux, for one,” he supplies, miffed, but couldn’t resist answering, “rush of endorphins coupled with serotonin. The bedrock of erotic asphyxiation.” For a second he can’t believe he just said the word ‘erotic’ in front of Derek, but he’s high, turned on, and he just wants a goddamn lick of THC back in his veins. “Second to that is probably just getting to brag like an ass.” 

Derek’s mouth is on his in a single breath’s time, and see they might as well be  _ kissing  _ now; there’s no hairsbreadth of space between their lips and Stiles’s chest seizes at the full press of their mouths as his gets filled with vapor up to the hilt of his lungs. His eyes automatically squeeze shut along with his mouth as Derek reels back slowly, and then he’s whispering, “Keep it in,” and Stiles just  _ does it. _ He concentrates on the suddenly muted sounds of his surroundings, cataloguing the feeling of having someone else’s breath in him. It’s surprisingly heavy, uncomfortable. He counts  _ ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four… _ and then all too soon he’s breathing it all out, translucent sheets of white pushing out in front of his face. He inhales sharply after, and finds that he’s disappointed he hadn’t even lasted all of ten seconds. Which is probably what compels him to say, “Another one,” with a voice much stronger than he felt. 

Derek humours this though, and this time he gives Stiles ample seconds to prepare for the fourth hit. He fits both palms on the handholds of Stiles’ face and seals their mouths slowly, the smoke transference going smooth and sure and substantial. There’s something so heady and inexorably intimate about filling his lungs with this - this air that didn’t belong to him and doesn’t even sit right inside of his body. He lets his eyes zone out with the view of Derek’s face as the only thing in his line of vision. Derek’s got this smirk, this lazy smile that curls up at the corner of his mouth distractingly, but Stiles refuses to be, decides it’s not enough to take away his attention from his mission. He’s going to make it to ten this time, he’s sure of it. 

He counts by pressing his fingers one by one on the mattress the way his kindergarten teacher had taught him to measure a second.  _ One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, four mississippi, five mississippi… _ He closes his eyes when he reaches eight, and come the tenth, he’s heaving out a breath and sucking back in another. 

Derek reaches a hand to steady his shoulders and Stiles feels more than hears him chuckle, “Shit, Stiles, that was good.” 

He’s not sure if it’s just the oxygen rushing back in that made that comment much hotter than it had any real right to be. But coupled with the dizzying intensity of holding your breath while you’re high, Stiles feels it go straight to his dick, hook-line-and-sinker, and by the time his head feels less like a grainy television channel he’s already half-hard in his still-damp jeans. 

“How’d I do?” he asks weakly, looking for more validation just so he could pack it away for a later jack off; one where he’s allowed to explore the praise kink he didn’t know he had until Derek fucking Hale told Stiles he did a good job of holding his breath  _ inside him. _ Fuck, Derek’s technically been inside him, just for a different reason than he’d fantasized about. The thought is unbelievably arousing and he’s not sure what to do with that.

But Derek doesn’t repeat the praise, and it kind of makes him want to whine. Instead, the werewolf says, “I think you could try for much longer. I think you’ll do great.”

And fuck him if he doesn’t want to do  _ great _ .

Stiles nods minutely and takes a few beats to compose himself. “Okay,” he breathes out, “okay let’s go for it. Go for fucking gold. Count for me, will you?” 

He’s got that small smile again, that disarming smirk. He says, “Sure,” and then he fits the blunt between that smile as he takes a long, deep pull from it. Stiles watches the embers light up and fray the paper’s edges, enraptured and a little jealous of a goddamn cigarette.

Derek’s the one who moves in to fit his mouth over Stiles's and this time, when he deposits the smoke on the pad of Stiles’s tongue, the older man helps him close his mouth with a real kiss that resounds in the heavy silence as they break apart. Stiles doesn’t bother to keep his eyes open, choosing instead to let it flutter shut as he completely detaches from his environment. But he feels Derek stay near, only a few inches away from his face. He grounds himself on the heat that permeates their close proximity. His throat feels a little abused, a little roughed up by the burn of marijuana. But he forces himself to keep steady, keep everything  _ in. _ He hears his heart beating loudly in his chest with an awareness he’s never had before, until it’s suddenly the only thing he can hear. Just his pulse in his ears, the click of his throat when it swallows reflexively, and then the sound of Derek’s soft counting swimming into focus:  _ “...seven...eight...nine...ten...eleven...twelve.” _

His brain is telling him the counting is much too slow. He hadn’t counted this slow for himself, had he? He wants to tell Derek to speed up, tell him that this was foul play and that he needs to breathe like he needs to be great, but  _ by god  _ does he want to be great even more. The burn in his chest grows exponentially the more he thinks about it, so he deflects his body’s natural response in favour of sinking his fingernails into the meat of Derek’s thighs. He doesn’t even hear Derek react to this, just the steady background sound of his continuous counting:  _ “..seventeen...eighteen...nineteen…” _

The first pin pricks of tears in his eyes only make him bite his fingers down harder. 

The body wants to preserve him this way, his cells screaming at him to let go, let up, _let fucking go._ It wants him to breathe but he doesn’t, _he won’t,_ and the counterintuitiveness of this conscious action makes his head spin punishingly. He hears the blood rushing in his ears and crashing into the thudding of his heartbeat. Every cell in his body warns him that this is not good, not right, _not breathing, you are not breathing,_ but Derek he - he’s telling him, _“Twenty five...twenty six..”_ and how could he breathe when Stiles is about to do _so_ _great for him?_

It starts to hurt a little more by the thirty-first second. He knows he should be able to hold his breath for way longer than this, he’s not the first idiot to have timed his breath as a kid after all. He had made it to a minute in a half with no sweat. It’s probably the carbon dioxide, the fact that the air in his lungs wasn’t quite right. It could also be because this was the third time he’s suspended oxygen from his body, or the way Derek had kissed him into halting his breath stole more of the little air that was left in his lungs. He’s not sure, he’s too busy sinking into the agony.

There’s pressure building steadily in his head, something he can’t quite ignore, squeezing and compressing. And suddenly the same can be said for his neck where there’s a hand snaking around it, big and almost hot enough to startle him into gasping out. Derek, who else other than Derek, holds onto his throat like he thinks he could still Stiles’s breathing even further. He’s probably right. Stiles tries not to pay too much attention to it. 

_ “...Thirty-six...thirty seven...thirty eight…”  _

He could make it to a minute, right?

_ “Thirty-nine...forty…”  _

He could make it so good. 

_ “Forty-one...forty-two...forty-three…” _

But then something in his diaphragm builds painfully until it feels like it’s  _ cracking _ . Later, Stiles would describe this feeling. But then, in that infinite second, the one that stretched between the forty-fourth count and the forty-fifth, all he is capable of is the complete and all-consuming panic of knowing your body has reached its limit - do not go farther than here,  _ do not pass Go do not collect 200 -  _ and with a great big trembling of his ribs that he feels ripple through his entire body --

He breathes out. 

Something roars in his ears - blood, probably blood - and he coughs a lungful of smoke out _violently_ as he gulps in breath after staggering breath, his veins nearly singing with the racing of endorphins that follows the air he finally lets swoop in and out. He feels like he whites out for a heart-stopping beat, but Derek’s hands are still on his throat and it brushes soothingly against his trachea, reminding him to _breathe more, breathe in._ He hacks out one after another, reintroducing oxygen back in his system. Stiles feels fuzzy around the edges, unfocused and unanchored. But then there is Derek’s hands that are holding him, holding him still. And Derek’s saying things, praises like, _“You did so good, fuck, that was great, Stiles,”_ and all he can do is whimper into the werewolf’s clavicle where his forehead has fallen against it.

It takes him a moment to open his eyes and see the tent in his jeans and realise _fuck,_ _that_ made him hard? He’s suddenly aware that he's breathing heavily for an entirely different reason. He’s got the air back in him and his head’s not feeling so compressed anymore, and he’s got this two-hundred pound predator who dared him to borrow their breath and cradle it inside of his person. And he’s hard, _he’s so fucking hard_ , he can’t believe how turned on he is by this. 

_ Shit,  _ he thinks and chances a glance up at Derek. The werewolf is looking at him hungrily, pinning him with the intensity of it. 

_ “ _ How’d I - how’d I do this time?” He pants out. 

“Tell me,” Derek swallows, doesn't break eye contact, “Tell me I can kiss you now.” And  _ oh. _

“Oh,” Stiles intones weakly, says, “okay,” and then they’re kissing, fully, deeply,  _ undeniably. _ Derek’s mouth threatens to steal his hard-earned breath away again, and he can’t have that, so he lets his tongue in and rolls it with Derek’s, feeling the hot slick of saliva accompanying the exchange of push and pull and the sliding of their tongues together.

He falls more than arranges himself into Derek’s lap, his hips bearing down to seek friction for the aching in his pants. Derek’s own hips meet him with an undulation that makes him moan so low and long he wonders if he had ever made that sound before. He finds purchase in the tufts of Derek's hair, pulling slightly to ground himself against the overwhelming feeling of their clothed dicks grinding together. At some point, Derek lets them fall gracelessly on the mattress, his hands that formerly supported their combined weight now slipping under the back of his leather jacket to roam across the skin of his back. And he's high,  _ he's so fucking high,  _ he's convinced nothing will ever feel as good as making out with Derek like this. 

The movement of his hips is uncoordinated at best, sloppy and inexperienced at worst. But Derek only pours his moans inside Stiles' mouth like he's getting as good as he's giving, and fuck if Stiles drinks it up like he drank in smoke not ten minutes ago. He'll bemoan willingly pursuing his orgasm with his pants on in the middle of a burnt husk of a house later, but now he chases after each pleasurable zing with more fervor in their kisses. Their teeth clack and Derek separates from him to put a hot mouth on his ear and a hand closing around his throat gently. 

"This okay?" the werewolf whispers in his ears. He's nodding his assent before he could even think about it, and that says a lot about how utterly gone he is on this man, this moment, this perfect cross between nirvana and being so clearly reminded of his mortality where it can be so easily crushed in Derek's grip. 

In a flash, he's being flipped on his back, and Derek grounds down so deep he felt like his arousal had splintered into climax. But he's wrong, he didn't, he's still incredibly on edge and ready to come but he  _ can't _ , not yet, he's grasping onto it like the way Derek grasps onto his throat. The older man latches onto his mouth again, licking into him with a demand to crumble under his touch. They're still trading rubbing against each other, Stiles is still caught between a rock and a hard cock, and Derek is still alternating squeezing _ ever so lightly  _ and holding his throat just so. He wants to break like he's never broken down into an orgasm before. The pressure Derek builds and releases as he tricks Stiles's head into breathing sharply and breathing but only  _ slightly _ makes his arousal ebb and flow and fuck, finally, when their hips meet in a manner he could only describe as a  _ rut,  _ he comes inside his pants with a breathless cry that Derek swallows down with a kiss. 

He comes and comes and he's gasping out breaths and pulling them in like he's broken the water's surface after spending an hour under it. 

Derek's resting his forehead against Stiles's, his eyes flashing a deep red. Stiles's first thought is it looked beautiful contrasted against the blueish glow of the room, and the second is, "Did you come?"

The question sort of answers itself, because Stiles can still feel him, hard against his sharp-boned hip, and it’s a thrilling realization, to feel that and look into Derek’s eyes, see them all blood-red and blown out, and know that _ he did that _ . To Derek Hale, Beacon Hills’ broodiest, growliest werewolf, who definitely still has a hard-on just from looking at and touching Stiles, of all people. It’s kind of breaking his brain a little bit, but that also might be from the oxygen deprivation compounded with the most intense orgasm he’s ever had in his entire life. 

Derek’s still rocking his hips in a jerky, rhythmless sort of way, and Stiles is definitely still hazy and fucked out, nowhere close to getting hard again, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling little flashes of lingering heat and pleasure like sparks from flint hitting steel. 

“Can I?” the wolf rumbles, and Stiles has no idea what he’s even asking for, and he has to stop himself from saying the words that automatically want to fly out of his mouth,  _ You can do whatever you want to me _ . For one thing, because the thought is absolutely too much to say right now, especially to Derek because Stiles has no idea what this even is, this thing between them. And two, because it’s shockingly, nakedly true, and Stiles doesn’t even understand exactly when and how that happened. 

Derek slides his hand away from the side of Stiles’s head to rub a thumb over his still-thrumming pulse, back and forth, his eyes following the movement with that same laser-like, predatory focus as before. Oh, Stiles thinks he gets it now, and he tilts his head to the side, baring his neck, and Derek dives into the curve of his shoulder with a snarl, which shouldn’t be sexy at all, but god, it is. “Just don’t bite me for real,” Stiles manages to gasp, when he feels the sharp points of what he knows are Derek’s fangs scraping over his throat. The wolf doesn’t say anything, but he’s again, surprisingly gentle, when he licks and sucks at the delicate skin there, nipping only once before burying his nose into the bowl of Stiles’s hollow collarbone. 

“Fuck,” Derek murmurs and Stiles shivers, because even Derek’s breath is burning hot just like the rest of him. “You smell so good.”

Stiles goes wide-eyed. “What do I smell like?” It’s a question he’s asked often enough, but nobody ever gives him a straight answer, so maybe this time he’ll actually get one. 

Derek pulls back to look at him, and the expression on his face is so brazen and unashamed in its hunger that Stiles feels himself almost stop breathing (again). “ _ Me _ .” And then Derek thrusts up against him one final time, shudders, and falls apart with a groan, his fingers tightening in Stiles’s short hair hard enough to make him whine. 

Stiles thought watching Derek smoke a joint was captivating. Watching him come is something else altogether. 

_ Jesus _ . 

The distance between them is still small enough that Stiles can actually feel Derek’s heart finally start to slow in tandem with his own, as they both come down from their high (from one type, at least). Stiles would never admit it, but he finds the weight of the man on top of him strangely comfortable, almost like his own personal werewolf weighted blanket. What’s far from comfortable is the cum currently drying on his upper thighs that he can feel rubbing against the rough denim of his jeans. He doesn’t move yet, or speak, because it feels like they’re under some sort of spell or something, and he doesn’t want to be the one to break it. Right now, everything is kind of perfect, and he’s not ready to pop the bubble and bring on the awkwardness he knows is more than likely coming. 

Maybe Derek senses this, because he manages to lift his head from Stiles’s shoulder, and the way the werewolf is looking at him is startling, mostly because his eyes are still shifted that striking ruby red. As if he needed another reminder that he’d just totally lost his dry-humping virginity (which is a thing now, he guesses) to a wolf-man. Even if the way that Derek leans down and rubs his nose across the slate of Stiles’s jaw is more feline than wolf. Stiles is aware enough of wolf behavior to recognize he’s being scent marked, and the light graze of Derek’s beard sends him shivering again. And god, after this he’s going to have to seriously examine his kinks because evidently he’s got a lot of weird ones. Although, technically they could all be boiled down to one, single Derek-shaped kink, as if he didn’t already know that. 

“Are you okay?” 

Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever heard Derek’s voice sound that rough before. “Yes,” he manages to finally breathe out. It’s not a lie either. He’s still stoned, but he feels...good, sated in a way he isn’t normally when his orgasms are solo events. It’s new, different, but definitely not bad. It’s Derek, his mind supplies, so how could it be bad? “Why?”

“You’re quiet,” Derek says. “You’re never quiet.” 

Stiles laughs, but he ends up coughing, his throat still raw from lack of breath mixed with the lingering burn from the pot smoke. “Yeah, ‘cuz I think every brain cell I had just exploded out of my dick.”

Derek makes a face, but the smirk curling at the edges of his mouth is smug enough to make Stiles roll his eyes. His pants are really starting to stick to him, making his legs itch, and he can’t help but squirm even though he’s still effectively pinned underneath Derek’s bulk. Doesn’t mean Stiles doesn’t whine a little when the wolf finally rolls off of him, collapsing next to him on his back with a growl.

“I suppose it’s too much to expect a place to shower?” Stiles says, staring up at the ceiling because he’s not sure he can handle looking Derek in the eyes yet. 

“There’s a creek out back.” 

Stiles snorts. The way Derek says it, Stiles honestly can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but he’s sort of leaning toward  _ not _ . “I would really prefer not to drive home while sitting in my own cum.” Derek laughs and Stiles tries not to focus on how good it sounds, or think about how much he wishes he could hear it all the time. “Hey, I’m not the only one in my situation, dude,” he huffs, finally managing to sit up and hazard a glance in Derek’s direction. And if he’s not mistaken, the tips of the werewolf’s ears are tinged slightly pink. It makes Stiles feel slightly better about the heat still lingering on his own cheeks.

Derek does end up lending him some clothes. And considering the fact that they just got off together, Stiles really shouldn’t be so shy about getting naked in front of him, but he stands there frozen anyway, looking at the clothes Derek gave him - a pair of sweats much too big in the waist, and a red shirt with thumb holes that is so well-worn and soft that Stiles has to stop himself from burying his face in it - like he’s never dressed himself before. Derek finally rolls his eyes and turns around, and Stiles scrambles into the clothes, and when he’s finished, holds out the leather jacket Derek let him borrow even though there’s a not-so-small part of him that doesn’t want to give it back. 

He’s expecting Derek to look annoyed when he turns back around, but instead it’s like he can actually feel the wolf’s eyes rake over him.  _ All of him _ . And Stiles kind of thought the staring thing would stop for at least a little bit, you know, after the mutual orgasms, but obviously not. The gaze doesn’t feel any less intense than it did before, and once again Stiles has no idea what that means.

“It’s still raining,” is all Derek says, like that’s an explanation for any of this, and ignores the jacket completely in favor of grabbing Stiles’s other hand and dragging him toward the front door and out onto the porch. But not before he makes sure the jacket is tucked firmly around Stiles’s boney shoulders. 

_ It’s still raining _ translates to Derek driving him back to his jeep. Stiles literally has to bite his lip to keep from asking one of the million questions he has been dying to ask, which translates to him frantically bouncing his knee up and down until Derek growls and holds it down with the hand not currently on the wheel. Stiles expects him to let go after a few seconds, but Derek doesn’t. He keeps it there, a constant weight, until they reach the cemetery. 

By the time Stiles manages to untangle himself from the camaro’s seatbelt and stumble over to his jeep, Derek is already there waiting, leaning against the driver’s side door which he’s so chivalrously opened for him. The rain has slowed down enough that it’s just drizzling, and of course Derek never bothered to put a shirt back on, so Stiles is forced to watch the path of all those droplets as they trickle down the older man’s chest, getting caught in that patch of hair Stiles desperately wants to press his face against, if only to see if it’s actually as soft as it looks. 

“Do you want this back?” 

Derek just cocks his head like Stiles isn’t even speaking english, and instead of answering him or even acknowledging that Derek’s heard him at all ( as one typically does in a conversation), the wolf just shoots a hand out and slips it under Stiles’s collar, making him flinch. The shudder that ripples through him at the touch, and the heat that flares against his throat both feel like involuntary reactions when Derek practically jams his thumb into what Stiles is pretty sure must be one impressive looking hickey. 

“No.” 

Stiles just blinks at him, and Derek’s expression is as unreadable as always, at least until Stiles turns to climb into the front seat, and then Derek is suddenly  _ right there _ , crowding him up against the open door in a way that’s almost comfortingly familiar, the natural order of things, his brain supplies unhelpfully. Still, he gulps nervously, wondering exactly when Derek’s eyes were going to shift back to their normal color. He assumes the weed has something to do with it. It surely can’t be entirely Stiles’s fault. “So,” Stiles starts, voice cracking just a little bit, and because Derek must have broken his brain for real, his mouth opens of its own accord and the question he absolutely did not want to ask flies out. “Does that mean this -- is this happening again?” 

Derek regards him for a moment that seems to stretch on a hundred miles past eternity. Seriously, Stiles is dying here. It’s not like he’s expecting Derek to get down on one knee or anything, jesus, but he’s kind of expecting more than what he gets, which is another frustratingly canine head-tilt and a single word:

“Yes.” 

This would be the opportune moment for Stiles to say something along the lines of  _ great, awesome, can’t wait to have lots more orgasms with you _ , but that’s not what happens. Instead, his hand reaches for Derek’s face, and to his credit, the wolf only flinches a little when Stiles’s fingertips skim his cheekbone. “You should sleep in a real bed.” 

Something soft flickers in Derek’s eyes, and Stiles watches the red bleed out of his irises until all that’s left is emerald green flecked with gold. He doesn’t answer right away, which doesn’t surprise Stiles in the slightest. What does is the puzzlingly tender kiss that gets pressed to his damp forehead. And then just like that, Derek’s halfway back to the camaro before Stiles can take a breath and speak again.

Stiles is dizzy when he finally gets himself buckled in, the jeep’s engine gasping and sputtering to life, which thank god, because he’s not sure what he would have done if it didn’t start the way it sometimes didn’t in bad weather. He doesn’t press the gas right away, just sits there drumming his nails on the steering wheel, listening to the rain hit the top of the car in steady metallic plinks.

“ _ What the fuck _ .”

…

That’s pretty much on loop in Stiles’s head the entire drive home, and then in the shower where he definitely doesn’t jack off again thinking about Derek’s mouth, or his hands, or how good both of them felt on his throat. It’s still on repeat an hour later when he’s standing in front of his mirror for an embarrassing amount of time, examining the bruise on his neck like it might disappear if he doesn’t stop looking at it. Or touching it. His fingers can’t seem to stay away, drawn to it like it’s a cut in his mouth that he can’t stop tonguing. 

Stiles has been putting off sleep because he’s not entirely sure this isn’t going to turn out to be some dream when he wakes up tomorrow, but eventually the siren call of his bed is too much to ignore. Derek’s clothes are still thrown haphazardly over the back of his desk chair, and Stiles hesitates for only a second before pulling them on, his eyes flickering nervously around the room like Derek might secretly be watching. Which is, of course, ridiculous.

Only it’s not because when he turns around,  _ Derek is right fucking there _ . Sitting on his bed and smirking at him, and oh my god, how long has he been there?

“ _ Holy shit _ . What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?” 

Derek’s expression turns inscrutable, with the exception of the eyebrow that’s arched sky high into his hairline. “Not today.” 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles sputters, shifting nervously because Derek is giving him one of those blatantly predatory looks, and for a brief second Stiles wonders if he might still accidentally be stoned. Maybe Derek is just a figment of his THC-soaked imagination. 

Stiles’s imagination must be extremely vivid then, he thinks, especially when Derek is suddenly right there crowding him up against the desk, and he can smell that familiar scent, rain-soaked pine, and feel the heat radiating off the werewolf’s skin like he’s a walking, talking furnace. 

“You told me I needed to sleep in a real bed,” Derek says, matter-of-fact. 

So he was listening. Good to know. “Uh huh,” Stiles says, confused, because does he expect them to go fucking mattress shopping or something? 

“So I found one.” 

It takes Stiles approximately thirty seconds to understand what Derek’s implying, and another thirty for his motor function to return, watching dazedly as Derek fucking Hale flops back onto his bedspread with his arms behind his head like he’s lying on a beach somewhere without a care in the world instead of in Stiles’s childhood bedroom. Again,  _ what the fuck _ . 

“Stop thinking and come to bed, Stiles,” Derek says, and there’s just enough of that commanding tone in his voice for Stiles’s stomach to flip apprehensively. Briefly his eyes flicker down to his chosen pajamas, and he wonders how weird it is that he’s still wearing Derek’s clothes. It doesn’t feel weird, and that in itself is something he is far too tired to examine at the moment.

“Keep them on,” Derek says,“and come here.” It’s dim in his bedroom, but Stiles is almost positive he sees a flash of red, but it’s gone before he can really be sure. 

“You’re really bossy,” Stiles snaps, frowning, but his feet betray him, and he’s halfway onto the mattress before he realizes he’s moved. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to get under the blankets, or how close to the older man he’s supposed to get, but Derek doesn’t give him a chance to mull any of that over, yanking him forward and into the cage of his arms in an embrace that’s just on the side of too tight. 

“You don’t mind,” Derek says, and it’s not said like a question, and Stiles isn’t sure if he should be offended by that. 

“So this is a thing?” Stiles asks. “A -- a you and me thing?”

Derek is quiet for just long enough that doubt starts to creep in, spreading like a blight in his chest, and Stiles can feel his own heartbeat start to quicken and his breath start to get shallow and frantic. “It’s a thing,” Derek says quickly, and then he’s sliding his hand up to rest just at the base of Stiles’s throat, squeezing gently like he’s trying to soothe him, and to Stiles’s eternal surprise,  _ it works.  _ “And I don’t share,” the older man adds, like that’s something that even needs to be said, because that’s the first thing Stiles thinks when he looks at Derek --  _ that guy’s a sharer.  _

Stiles rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to say something sarcastic, but air catches in his lungs when he feels Derek’s blunt teeth at the back of his neck, followed by the hot press of his tongue, and then the gentlest brush of lips at his pulse point. 

“You’re really confusing,” Stiles mutters, but he finds his eyelids getting heavy anyway.

“Shut up, baby,” Derek murmurs, nuzzling behind Stiles’s ear like he’s looking for something he lost back there, and when lust flickers faintly through his veins at that name, a name nobody has ever called him in his entire life, Stiles can’t bring himself to dissect that response, just files it away in that box of things he’s definitely going to need to examine at some point. Just not tonight. 

Because Derek Hale is in his bed.

Derek Hale is in his bed and clearly has a thing for snuggling, and pet names, and also skinny, spazzy teenagers named Stiles Stilinski, apparently.

And Stiles is pretty sure he might, maybe have a thing for a sourwolf named Derek Hale. 

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

So he does. 

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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